


Like You Mean It

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Biting, Bruises, M/M, Smut, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kingsley Shacklebolt had been raised to believe that the strong had an obligation to be gentle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like You Mean It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Bites/Bruises"

“For the last time, Shacklebolt—come at me like you mean it!”

Breathing hard, Kingsley circled warily and then threw himself at Moody in a flying tackle. The resultant 'oof!' echoed across the empty training hall an instant before they both hit the floor. The mat barely cushioned their fall, but there was no time to recover. Moody kneed him in the side and bucked him off, and Kingsley—who after six months of training didn't have to consciously think to throw a hex anymore—executed a flip and hold in a series of painfully slow microseconds.

Left hand on shoulder. Right hand on elbow. Knee to solar plexus. Throw weight.

Moody went over, but not without a scornful snort. “My aged granny could break this,” he said, shoving him off almost effortlessly. “Put your weight into it, lad!”

Sweat dripping into his eyes, Kingsley grabbed him again, this time pressing through his own reticence and pushing down with his whole body, his fingers digging into Moody's shoulders until he could feel the softening of bruising flesh and the grind of bone against bone.

“Better,” Moody said and then broke the hold anyhow and yanked him down for a kiss.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been raised to believe that the strong had an obligation to be gentle. _Be sweet to your brother—he's littler than you_ , and _Don't play so roughly with the cat—you'll hurt her._ It was little wonder then that he had ended up wanting to be an Auror. He had always been big for his age, stronger than most, quicker than most, and he had come up under a head of house who stressed the importance of fair play, and parents who had made it clear that being careless was a privilege not everyone could afford.

Moody grabbed him by the back of his neck, squeezing hard. Their mouths clashed together, teeth against lips. The door was locked, he knew that, but still he felt a brief, apprehensive shiver as Moody pulled at their robes. His hands were still on Moody's shoulders, pinning him down, and they clenched hard as teeth scraped over his jaw and nipped at his ear. He swallowed a gasp as Moody bit his neck sharply, and after only a moment's hesitation, he gave in, grinding his hips down and biting in turn at the crook of Moody's neck, where the man's skin was hot and uncharacteristically smooth.

This was new. Not the sex, exactly. But the suddenness of it, the roughness, the abandon. It wasn't impossible to date at Hogwarts when you liked playing on the home pitch, but it wasn't exactly easy. Only one other boy around Kingsley's age had been less than circumspect about his preferences, and he and Kingsley had more or less fallen into each other's company in seventh year. Not that it had been a sacrifice. Darius McKinnon had been handsome—no, beautiful. Slim and delicate, with long, artful hands and dramatic cheekbones. He had fit into Kingsley's arms like a porcelain doll and Kingsley had been heart-poundingly terrified of hurting him, of accidentally crushing him, of going too far and ruining everything.

There was no such restraint or hesitation as Moody hastily got their robes up and their drawers down just far enough to stroke them both off in one broad, rough hand. Kingsley's eyes squeezed shut and his throat rumbled a moan at the tight grip of Moody's hand, the hard caress of a thumb over his glans, and the heat of Moody's cock throbbing against his own.

He gave in to the pleasure, hips rolling and mouth stealing sharp, hungry kisses. The notion of having to be gentle with Alastor Moody—of being able to hurt him—was pretty much laughable, and had been ever since the first of their private training sessions, when Moody had kept him after class, despairing of his long-ingrained aversion to throwing a punch.

_“Hit me, Shacklebolt.” A pause, then: “Now try it like you're not an infant throwing a tantrum.” Needling him, goading him, pushing him until he finally lost control and the two of them were crashing to the floor, grappling and kicking and elbowing. Until he saw that knowing glint in Moody's eyes. Until the hand pinning down his hip became the hand groping at his arse._

“Fuck,” Moody grunted, pushing up against him and stroking them both faster. The pleasure gained an edge, overlapping sweetly with bright, sharp pain.

Kingsley bit down again at Moody's throat and sucked hard, muffling the hot, eager cry that welled up inside him as he was pulled hard over the edge. He felt the rapid hammering of a pulse against his lips and the satisfying yielding of flesh between his teeth, and then he was coming all over Moody's hand, coming slick over Moody's cock, pulling Moody over with him to the sound of a short, husky moan.

He shivered, his face buried in the crook Moody's shoulder and his heartbeat thudding in his ears for several long moments before the rest of his senses surfaced and the training hall came back into full focus. Then he rolled over, his breath still coming fast, and pulled out his handkerchief. He cleaned up and then looked over, watching Moody through heavy-lidded eyes.

Moody was still an unapologetic mess—a craggy-faced Bacchus with his cock hanging out and a smug smile on his lips. The mark on his neck was already purpling, dark and raw. The skin was unbroken but bore the unmistakable imprint of Kingsley's teeth.

Kingsley reached out, ignoring the half-annoyed look Moody shot him, and touched the bruised skin in curiosity. It was hot to the touch, still wet, and obviously sensitive, judging by the way Moody's breath suddenly caught. He stroked it very softly and then leaned in and put his mouth there again, soothing it with his lips and tongue.

“Hmph,” Moody snorted. Then he sighed and patted him on the hip, his hand lingering.

Well, Kingsley thought with a small smile. Maybe gentleness wasn't entirely off the table.


End file.
